


Wayward

by analogueAssassin



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur-centric, M/M, WIP, no seriously, slow-burn, supernatural!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analogueAssassin/pseuds/analogueAssassin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Oh, darling, I’m many things, but I am not your friend.”</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Then what the hell are you?”</i></p><p>  <i>“An interested party. Something big is coming, can’t you feel it? There are more things to hunt now than there have been in years. Demons used to be rare, now you can’t throw a stone without hitting one. Someone’s planning something, and you’re going to be smack in the middle of it all.”</i></p><p> <br/>Or: “That one Supernatural!AU, where Arthur and Dom are hunters and Eames is a mystery."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I’m very late to the Inception party, but I got bored and wrote things and this happened. This is a slow-burn, Arthur-centric AU. You are warned. No clue if the rating will change. This is a wip, but it’s also 11k words so far in my Gdoc, so…. There’s that. Yes, some side characters and some of their quotes were ripped from the Supernatural series, because I am a lazy shit. 
> 
> Lots of love to my betas, Megiscastielsunicorn and Akodomaforest, you guys rock. Also thanks to Jeffersonstarshipshavethetardis, who was really great for helping the story along when it was just an idea.

***----PRESENT DAY----***

Arthur opened his wallet and took out a picture. It was him, at Mal and Dom’s wedding. He’d been the man of honor (even though Mal had claimed Dom was poaching), and in this picture he was smiling and laughing with the newlyweds. It wasn’t a professional picture, just taken with a disposable camera, but it was his favorite. It was so honest, and they were all so happy. 

Carefully, he ripped himself out of the picture, and tucked the remaining half with his friends back into his wallet. The piece with him on it was roughly shoved into a bag, where it fit nicely among the jawbone of a black cat, yarrow, and some graveyard dirt.

The hole at his feet wasn’t large or deep, but it was enough. 

Behind him came the sound of displaced air, and an accented voice. “Arthur. Please, listen to me. You can’t seriously want this. You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“I know exactly what I’m doing, Eames,” He kicked some dirt over the bag. It barely sprinkled down; probably Eames’s doing. “Better than most.”

“No, Arthur, you don’t understand, you can’t do this, this affects more than just you!”

Arthur whirled around to face the other man. “You think I don’t know that?” He hissed, quietly seething. “You know what I can’t do? Watch Dom try to do suicide-by-monster one more time. Watch him draw in that fucking book. I’m not about to let that continue. You hit the nail right on the head last year- I’m nothing without him. Him, and Mal, and the kids are the only people in the world who even give a shit about me, and I can’t sit by and do nothing anymore!”

Desperation wasn’t a good look on him; he knew that. He also knew that he was beyond caring. 

“This is selfish. They’ll mourn you. They all will. Fuck, _I_ will.”

Arthur kicked again at the dirt. Nothing. “I don’t care! They’ll be a family again, and they’ll be okay. That’s what I care about.” 

For a few seconds, there was silence. Turning his back on Eames, Arthur bent down and shoved the little dirt pile into the hole, neatly covering up his bag. Eames was quiet, but probably still there- there would have been a sound if he left- but Arthur wasn’t going to turn around and look at him. 

He appeared out of nowhere on the peripheral of Arthur’s vision, wearing an impeccable dark grey suit. “I must say I am surprised to see you.” Saito’s voice was smooth and deep, just like the first time they’d met. He blinked the red of his eyes away, looking for all the world like any normal, Japanese businessman. 

Arthur, however, didn’t have the patience for pleasantries. “I need to make a deal, tonight.”

The demon watched Arthur for a minute, considering. “And what would you have me do?”

“Bring back Mallorie Cobb.”

***----4 YEARS AGO----***

It wasn’t long before Arthur decided he didn’t really like the guy they were working with. And he wasn’t really sure he liked the job they were doing, either. The newspapers had made it clear there was something going on; two people were raving about a large black dog that no one else had seen, before offing themselves. They’d looked into less. 

But the other hunter they’d found there, Nash; he seemed skeevy, with his greasy hair and pointed face. Well, all hunters came off as a bit rough at best- came with the territory- but something about Nash put Arthur off. Of course, Cobb just wanted to hunt and kill this thing, and didn’t care who they worked with, and Arthur was still new to this- it was only his fifth hunt. So, Arthur would put up with Nash, because Dom wanted him to. 

His notes were spread all over the (somewhat sticky) motel table. Everything pertaining to Sean Boyd, a genius architect (and that was a laugh, wasn’t it?) who’d taken a nosedive off of his own building, was on the left. On the right was Dr Silvia Growman, who had taken off from her practice after seeing a large black dog, and holed up in a hotel, and been torn to bits by a dog no one could find. Both of them had gotten successful almost overnight, almost exactly ten years ago. The only connection they have is a picture Nash gave them, of Silvia at a bar- called Lloyd’s- that the first vic had worked at. 

“Dom, we have to go to that bar.” 

Dom looked up briefly from his worn, frayed sketchbook, before turning his gaze back to his drawing. Odds were, it was Mal again, smiling and lovely, the way Dom wanted to remember her. “Alright, I guess I’ll drive. Go get Nash.” 

Arthur stopped himself from grinding his teeth, kept his face impassive, and went to inform Nash that they were going to scope out the bar. 

The bar itself was unimpressive; it was at a crossroads, yes, but there was nothing else around it for miles, it seemed, and the grass and weeds around the road were overgrown and untended to. Dom stopped the car they were driving and got out, to look around a little before the went into the bar. Arthur followed him, deliberately waiting until Nash was out of the car and trying to keep the guy in sight.

Arthur idly pointed out the flowers and weeds to Dom, wondering aloud when the last time the owners had it mowed was.  
Dom walked over to one flower and picked it, looking closely. “I know this plant. Yarrow, it’s used in summoning rituals. . .” He trailed off, turning a circle. “You don’t think. . . Oh, shit.” 

Nash, thankfully, looked just as lost as Arthur was, which made Arthur happy, in a slightly mean-spirited way. But Dom seemed to notice their confusion, and backed up to explain. “Yarrow, the bones of a black cat, a picture, and graveyard dirt can be buried in a container at a crossroads to summon a demon. For the price of one soul, you can make a deal with a devil. . .” He beckoned Arthur to him, and together, they began to dig. It wasn’t hard to find the small, metal box, buried maybe six or eight inches deep. Inside was an expired driver’s license, with the name ‘George Darrow’, and an address. Dom pulled it out to look at it more closely. 

Arthur brushed the dirt off his hands.“I guess we know where we’re going next.” George Darrow lived in a small, piece of shit apartment in an ugly, falling-apart building. He had black powder (“Goofer Dust” explained Dom, upon sniffing it. “It’s hoodoo.”) under his doorway, and made it clear to the hunters that he was just fine living with- and, more to the point, dying with- his deal. 

“But the demon stuck around a little while, made deals with a few other people,” said Darrow, picking up his paintbrush. He was taller than Arthur, but looked older than his years, and unhealthy. The painting in front of him was quite macabre, with half of it being human-looking and normal, but for the bits of bone and blood showing through- Arthur almost shuddered looking at it. But it was important to Darrow, so he kept his mouth shut and his face carefully blank.

“Do you know those other people’s names?” asked Dom, somewhere to his right. Just behind Darrow, Nash was examining some of the finished paintings lining the walls. Arthur shifted, just a little, so that he could look as if he was paying attention to the painter’s words and still keep an eye on Nash.

“Nah, not really. There was the architect, the doctor lady. I kept up with them, they were in the papers. Least they got famous. And then there was the last guy, what was his name. Hudson, I think. Ethan? Don’t know what he asked for. Shame, he was a nice guy, too.” Darrow shrugged, dabbing at his canvas with the brush. “Don’t matter now. We done for.”

“No,” Dom insisted. “There’s always a way.”

“I called that thing! I brought it on myself. I brought it on them. I'm going to hell, one way or another. I told you, all I want is to finish my last painting. Day or two, I'm done. I'm just trying to hold them off 'till then. Buy a little time.” Darrow gave them a good, long look, and then gestured at the door. “Okay, boys. Time you went, go help somebody that wants help.” And he went back to painting.

Dom nodded. “Alright, sir, thank you for your time.” And left, Nash close behind. Arthur moved towards the exit, but stopped, hand on the open door. He could just barely see the other hunters waiting at the end of the hall, looking impatient. Let them. He had something to ask before he left.

“Mr. Darrow... What did you ask for?” What could be so important that someone would literally sell their soul?

“Talent. I mean, who don't want to be great? Who don't want their life to mean something? I just... I just never thought about the price.”

Arthur nodded. “Was it worth it?” he asked, voice soft.

Darrow laughed, bitterly. “Hell, no. Shoulda gone for fame. Now, I'm still broke, and lonely.” He sighed, waved at the door. “Go on, get. I have work to do.” 

The hunter nodded again, and left, making sure not to disturb the line of Goofer Dust.

When he caught up to the others, Nash immediately started asking questions, but Dom didn’t say anything until they were all back in the car. “Nash, we’re going to head back to motel. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?” It was a clear, if polite, dismissal, and Nash took the hint.

“Just my motel room is fine,” He said, looking away from Arthur, so his expression was hidden. 

Dom let Nash out of the car in front of his room. Silence settled back over Dom and Arthur again as they drove around to the other side of the building, uncomfortable, if not exactly unfamiliar. Arthur had learned early on how to not fidget and squirm his way through the quiet, how to just go still and blank. Later, it would be a trademark, of sorts.

Finally, Dom realized that Arthur wouldn’t speak until he did, and said what he’d been holding back since Darrow’s apartment. Or, that’s what Arthur thought he was going to do, but all he offered was a simple, “Arthur.”

“Dom,” Arthur returned cautiously. 

“You can’t save them all. You have to know that. In this business, you can’t save them all.”

“I know that, Dom.”

“I know you stayed behind to try to talk him into not giving up-” Dom said, parking the car, and beginning to gesture with his hands.

“I didn’t,” Arthur stated simply. 

“What?”

“Ask him to live- I didn’t.” He wouldn’t look at Dom right now. Or maybe he couldn’t.

Dom hesitated, aware that he was on unstable ground. “Then what did you say?”

Arthur was actively looking away, now, taking in the detail of the motel’s dingy walls and the peeling paint on the faded green doors.

“I’d rather not repeat it.”

Arthur felt rather than saw Dom’s answering nod. “Okay,” His friend said, letting it drop. “Okay.”

The day passed slowly, as Arthur dug up as much on the name as he could. There was no Ethan Hudson, but there was an Evan. Ten years ago, he was in the same living situation, with the same wife, and Arthur was almost out of his mind before he was able to find it- the reason why Hudson had given up rights to his soul.

“Dom. Hudson’s wife had cancer ten years ago. Now, it’s in complete remission.” He stared at his friend, who was currently brooding with his sketchbook. It couldn’t be healthy, drawing her over and over like that. But it wasn’t Arthur’s place to say so.

But his friend was like a dog with a bone when it came to work. He couldn’t research for shit- apparently it had always been Mal’s job- but he was clever, and a good con man, and tenacious as hell while on a hunt. He snapped shut his sketchbook, and turned to face Arthur. “That sounds like a reason to sell your soul, all right.” He gave Arthur a considering look. “So, here’s my plan...”

\---  
“You want me to do what?!”

“It’s a horrible plan,” Arthur informed Nash matter-of-factly. Knowing that didn’t change that it was best plan they had right now. 

“There is no way in Hell that will work,” Nash said. “We are going to go down bloody.” He gestured tightly with his hand, something that was apparently synonymous with ‘dying horribly’. His greasy hair reflected the yellowed light of the motel lamps, and Arthur cringed internally a little bit.

“It’ll work.” Dom sounded sure. Arthur was less sure, of course, but where Dom went, he went. If Dom was going to die, it would be with Arthur fighting at his back.

\---- 

They lined the outside of Evan’s house with Goofer Dust and salt. Dom was going to go inside and talk to Evan, explain the situation and try to be the last line of defence. Arthur and Nash were going to kill the hound of hell with a knife that Nash had- he swore it would kill demons. If the plan worked, they’d give Evan a hex bag and tell him to leave town so that another hellhound couldn’t be sent to collect.

The plan probably wouldn’t work. But Arthur had his pistols and his blessed-silver bullets at his sides, a sawed-off with rock salt and a supersoaker of holy water strapped to his back anyway. Nash seemed to have only the knife, and, to be quite honest, it wasn’t very impressive. It was a small thing, relatively, with a serrated blade and a wooden handle. There looked to be some sort of carvings on it, but Nash wouldn’t let Arthur close enough to really look. 

He turned to Nash and was about to say something when he heard the growling. It was chilling, and Arthur readied his guns, more for the comfort of knowing his weapons were there than anything else. The thing had a sort of shape, a blurry outline that one could just see through the darkness. Arthur aimed and too his first shot, but it was fast. He didn’t flinch as it came barrelling his way- a combination of knowing he was in the salt circle and sheer stubbornness- and shot again, and again, missing every time. 

Then, he realized, it wasn’t heading for him, or the front door. It was going to Nash, off to the side. Nash tried slashing at it with his knife, but the knife did nothing. It was a fake, Arthur realized. A fake, or just not working. Nash was screaming, and flailing, and Arthur could hear the hound snarling and the wind picking up.

Arthur ran over to Nash, to provide backup and, hopefully, get a clear shot at the hellhound without taking out his ally. Then, he heard what Nash was screaming.

“Take him, please God, just take him instead of me, it’s one soul, you won’t know the difference, just take them, take all of them-” 

It was impossible not to want to shoot Nash, and hard not to aim his gun at the idiot’s pointy little nose. Instead, Arthur took out his aggression on the hound, not that the fucking coward deserved to live. Evan, he had to remember Evan. A wounded howl split the air once, and Arthur felt a brief moment of triumph-

Before a red-eyed man walked from the shadows, seemingly from nowhere. He was wearing a slick black suit, the shirt underneath obviously based off of Japanese styles, and looked Asian. “Nash, I thought we had an agreement.” His accented voice carried well over the hellhound’s snarls.

“Fuck you, Saito- just take him!” Nash pointed wildly at Arthur, but Saito didn’t even look his way. 

“His soul was not the deal. Yours was. Come here, please.” 

“If I shoot him, will you take him? I can gut him for you right now, Saito, just let me live. I’ll even fetch you the ones inside, three for one, please!” 

The demon chuckled. “You do not understand. I was not asking.” The wind picked up, and the salt, predictably, blew away. A part Arthur’s brain dimly wondered if putting the salt in hulahoops or over glue might work, for next time.

Nash seemed to understand that his predicament was dire. “Arthur, Arthur please, help me!”

Arthur twitched. This man would’ve killed him, and moreover, Dom, just minutes ago, to save his own skin. But watching him get torn up right in front of him- Arthur wasn’t heartless.

Saito must have been watching him, after all, or maybe he was just that good. “Arthur, was it? In return for you not attacking me or this hound, the Hudson man’s life will be spared. His soul will be mine in death, but the rest of his life will be his. I will not interfere.” Saito blinked, and the red of his eyes was gone, replaced with something normal, human. “Try to stop me and I will kill all four of you and drag your souls to the pit.”

It had been a hard choice before, but- Dom. Evan, yes, but the reason he didn’t move was mostly Dom. He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t risk Dom’s life for a man who had offered seriously to kill them all. 

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“I’m bound to it. If a crossroads demon goes back on their word, they die. Proviso written into the very fabric of our beings.”

“Don’t make me watch,” Arthur said, nodding at the demon. Saito inclined his head in return. 

“You will not even hear the screams.”

Arthur turned around, trying not to hear the panicked sounds Nash was making, and wondered if this made him heartless.

\-----

When he got home that night, Arthur pulled out his leather journal. On the back page, he wrote Nash’s name. He had been directly responsible for his death, no matter how much Dom told him he’d made the right call, and he wasn’t about to forget.

It would be the first of a very long list. 

***-----A YEAR AGO----***

Waking up sucked. Contrary to popular belief, Arthur was very emphatically not a morning person. Dom’s portable speaker was hooked up to his phone, playing a song in French. One from Mal’s old playlist- she used to hum it all the time. Dom smirked at him from where he sat, already fully dressed, on the bed across from his. Arthur groaned at him, and pulled the pillow over his head. Like an asshole, Dom tugged it away. “C’mon, Arthur, you can’t hide forever.”

“I can,” Arthur protested weakly, hiding underneath the motel comforter instead. “And do we really need Edith Piaf this early in the morning?”

But Dom was used to this behavior, and just began to sing along with the woman. Badldy, off-key, and with a truly horrific accent. _“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_

Arthur made one last sound of discontentment before dragging his ass to the shower. Dom called after him, informing him they were going out for breakfast. Good- he’d feel better after coffee.The town was small, like most of the ones they preferred for hunts, with a few hotels and some little tourist-y things. It’s only claim to fame was the local ‘Mystery Spot’ of Broward County. The tacky yellow pamphlet on it (snagged from a rack by the door of the diner as they walked in) proudly stated that the laws of physics ‘had no meaning’ there, with a few nonsense strings of numbers and equations. Arthur thought it was a joke of a job. (It may have had something to do with the fact that Arthur had studied physics in college for a while, or that the pamphlet’s neon color personally offended his sense of style. Or both.)

“I call bullshit. All these mystery spot places are just tourist traps- the only things in danger here are our wallets. We should just leave, find a real case,” he said, prodding at the Tuesday special cautiously with his fork. What was a ‘Pig n’ a Poke’ supposed to be, anyway? This was the last time Dom ever ordered for him. At least he’d managed to ask for a coffee when Dom ordered him a Coke.

Dom seemed happy enough with his breakfast, talking as he ate. “Some of these places actually are supernatural in origin,” he said, unconcerned.

Arthur scoffed. “Okay, then. What’s the lore?”

The expression on Dom’s face made it clear he didn’t have much to back this up with, besides personal belief. “It’s all over the place, but. The most popular theory is that the magnetic fields can be so strong, they actually bend space-time, sending the victims away into a type of vortex.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Balls rolling uphill and furniture nailed to the ceiling does not impress me.”

“Someone went missing here! I’m not saying something is definitely happening, but we should at least check it out. If nothing’s going on, we’ll just leave.”

“Fine. We’ll take a look,” Arthur acquiesced, returning to his coffee. Dom made an agreeing noise and continued eating.

The waitress chose that moment to walk over, a glass of soda and a bottle of hot sauce on the tray. “I brought you a refill,” she said, with a smile at Dom. In fact, she was so busy trying to get Dom to notice her breasts that the bottle of hot sauce slid off the tray and smashed on the ground, spattering all over Arthur’s shoes and pants. “Wha- shit! Sorry, guys,” She said to Dom, before turning to leave. “Clean up at Table Six!” She snapped in the direction of the busboy, and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Arthur raised his eyebrows at Dom, who grinned a little. “Don’t say a word,” he threatened, and Arthur held up his hands in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say anything!” But Arthur was grinning, too.

Breakfast passed quietly, after that. 

\---

The walk back to the hotel was pleasant enough, if a bit busy- there was a dog tied to a pole, barking; two guys trying to fit some piano through a too-small door, and arguing about it; a really hot girl bumped into Arthur and smiled flirtatiously. Arthur, for his part, ignored all of it, and focused on the task at hand.

“Let’s go ahead and get this Mystery Spot business over with.”

Dom shrugged. “Sounds fine. We’ll hit it tonight, after it closes.”

“Good. I don’t want to be seen walking into a place like that,” Arthur said, smirking. 

Dom rolled his eyes at him, glancing over his shoulder. “What, afraid it will sully your reputation as-”

Mid-sentence, Dom was hit by a car. He flew through the air, and landed hard on his side. Arthur was kneeling next to him before he could even think about it, grabbing at his friend’s shoulders and feeling too shocked to cry, or say anything. 

And then he woke up.

\---

_“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_

Arthur turned towards the sound, looking at where Dom was standing over Arthur’s bed, ready to wake him up. He looked surprised- Arthur only woke up by himself if he was either a) in danger, b) thought he was in danger, or c) waking from a nightmare that both of them would pretend didn’t happen.

Dom, guessing which of the three it was, smiled hesitantly. “Hey, you’re up. Everything… Okay?”

“Yeah.” The word was out of his mouth before he could think about it. Like hell was going to tell Dom about the… Dream? Was it a dream? It had been really vivid- and Arthur was usually very good about what was reality and what wasn’t. He needed to get his head back in order, put it out of his mind. A shower- a shower would be a good idea. And then some breakfast. He shoved back the blankets and climbed out of the bed, ready to get the day over with.

As it turned out, the shower was a good idea. The warm water, even with it’s uneven pressure, felt good on his face and neck. Arthur had almost managed to clear his head, and convince himself it was just a strange nightmare.

Breakfast undid all of that within fifteen minutes, when Dom happily ordered a soda and the Tuesday special- Pig n’ a Poke- for himself and Arthur. Unlike last time, Arthur wasn’t with it enough to ask for a coffee instead, just nodding and watching the waitress walk away (ignoring the sway in her hips, which wasn’t for his benefit anyway). He consoled himself with the fact that the breakfast was just as terrible as in the dream, and that Dom had bad taste in food.

But he’d officially had it when the waitress brought a refill of Coke for Dom, flirting outrageously enough to let the hot sauce teeter on the tray. Making a split-second decision, Arthur stuck his hand out where the bottle had fallen in the dream. A moment later, the glass bottle smacked into his palm.

“Good catch,” said the stunned waitress, eyeing Arthur with a new appreciation. Arthur set the bottle on the table in front of him, face blank, and the waitress wandered away.

“Is everything alright?” Dom asked, setting down his fork. “You’re acting really strange today, Arthur.”

“You don’t remember any of this?” He shot back, pushing his plate aside and leaning forward, forearms pressing down on the cold table.

“What, like deja-vu?” Now Dom just looked confused, furrowing his brows.

Arthur shook his head. “No. I mean like, haven’t we done this before?”

“So… Deja-vu.”

“No.” Arthur kind of wanted to yell at him. Two or three years ago, he might have. But hunting had made him wary of getting loud- when Arthur was angry, nine times out of ten, he got quiet. “Forget about deja-vu. It’s like… We’re living yesterday all over again.”

Obviously concerned, Dom squinted at Arthur. “How is that not-“

“ _Don’t._ Say deja-vu.” 

The rest of breakfast was rather quiet, and Arthur didn’t eat anything. He felt like he’d throw up if he tried.

\---

Outside, the same dog barked as they passed by. 

“Arthur, I’m sorry, but you’re not making any sense,” Dom said, sounding worried.

Repressing a grunt of frustration, Arthur turned to him. “Okay. So, yesterday was Tuesday. But today is also Tuesday. We’ve gone to the same diner, ordered the same thing- the waitress even dropped the hot sauce again.” He snapped, dodging the bickering movers.

“But you caught it.”

Arthur rubbed a hand against his forehead, trying to control his temper. “Yes, because I knew it was going to happen.” If he were in Dom’s shoes, he’d.... No, fuck that, he’d accept it and move on. Dom was difficult. 

“I hate to say it, but this is a little crazy. Even for me. Could this be-”

“Dom. If you say deja-vu, I will end you.” 

Dom smiled. “I was going to say a ‘psychic premonition’.”

“…Oh.” Arthur grinned back a little (Dom’s smiles were contagious) before it slammed into him.

Premonition. That meant Dom would die today. Soon.

But Dom hadn’t noticed Arthur’s change in mood, and just kept speaking. “…so we’ll do this case, see if Hasselback disappeared because of the mystery spot, and maybe see if it has something to do with this whatever-it-is that’s going on with you. Let’s lie low until after they close, and check it out then.”

Arthur agreed, but last time this didn’t end well. He needed to change something, quickly. 

Desperate, he reached out as casually as he could to grab Dom’s shoulder. “Dom, I just... Thanks. For believing me,” He said awkwardly, as the car barreled past. Bullet dodged. Arthur tried very hard not to breath a sigh of relief.

\---

Something about the atmosphere, or how upset Arthur looked that morning, kept them from doing anything too serious. Research, for once, was ignored. They watched old eighties movies, and a movie in French without subtitles because they remembered how it used to make Mal smile. They were both fluent, because she’d taught them back in high school and never let them forget it. Arthur still made sure to practice regularly, for her.

After hours of laughing with his best friend, Arthur was finally beginning to relax- he’d gotten Dom past the part where he died in the dream, and was almost giddy with relief. Too soon, though, the mystery spot closed, and it was time to head out.

\---

“Uncanny,” Arthur remarked sarcastically, staring at the furniture nailed tackily to the ceiling. It would be immature to say that he’d called it- or was that conversation part of the dream?- so he settled for: “Find anything?”

Dom looked where Arthur shined the light, and glances at the EMF meter in his hand. “No.”

“Do you know what I’m even supposed to be looking for?” He asked, making an attempt to sound long-suffering. It failed miserably. He just sounded amused.

Dom bristled. “Of course!”

Arthur thought the way he simply raised his eyebrow at his friend, unconvinced, was rather eloquent, and a moment later, Dom relented.

“No. I have no clue.”

“What the hell are you doing here?!” A voice yelled from behind him. Arthur whirled around to see the owner of the voice holding a shotgun, aimed straight at Dom, gun already in hand. 

“Okay, calm down,” Dom said soothingly, holding his hands up in surrender, letting his gun hang loose from his fingers. Arthur drew his gun quietly, aiming for the stranger standing between him and his friend. He hadn’t seemed to notice Arthur, and that would work in their favor. Dom tried to keep the man’s attention, still talking. “I can explain.”

“You robbing me?” The man shrieked, and Arthur clicked the safety off quietly, trying to maintain his cool. This wasn’t the first time he’s watched a friend be held at gunpoint, or pointed his gun at a man, but it was the first time he’d been in the situation with a civilian. 

“Nobody’s robbing you. Just calm down. I’m going to put my gun down now, alright?” Dom continued, and started moving slowly, bending to lay his gun aside on a shelf.

“Don’t move! Don’t move!” screamed the guy, aiming his gun squarely at Dom’s chest.  
But the other hunter was good at keeping calm. “I’m just putting my gun down,” he assured the guy, continuing.

The gun jumped in Arthur’s hand, the bang startlingly loud. The guy with the shotgun went down, but the bullet had passed through his leg and, as Arthur watched with horror, Dom dropped to the floor, presumably trying to get out of the way and instead moving straight into the bullet’s path. If he’d have gone for his gun, like Arthur had thought he would, he would have been clear. As it was, the bullet caught him in the chest.

Arthur rushed over, not caring about the stranger- he’d live- and propped Dom’s head up on his lap. “I- I didn’t mean to-”

It was useless and he knew it, but he had to do something. His hands flitted over Dom’s chest, trying to find something to use to stop the bleeding. But the blood was everywhere, staining Dom’s shirt, his jacket, his lips when he tried to speak or cough, and was steadily soaking into Arthur’s jeans, slick and warm. He wanted to be sick. “Dom, hang in there. Dom. Dom!” He resisted the urge to fist his hands in his Dom’s jacket- it wouldn’t help.

He was already gone.

And then Arthur gasped awake. Again.

\---  
 _“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_

Arthur was already up and out of his bed before Dom had a chance to say anything. When most people flipped out, they got sloppy and frozen; when Arthur freaked out, he got efficient. It had saved his life before, in the military, so he never tried to change it. Now, Dom looked at him, confused, as Arthur grabbed his clothes in short, controlled movements and headed for the shower and it’s (hopefully) calming properties.

While he was taking the shower and trying to get his thoughts straight, Dom opened the door into the motel’s bathroom. Ostensibly, Dom was going to ask if he was okay, but instead he tripped on the towel Arthur had thrown down (to mop up the water he was sure to track out) and hit his head on the side of the tub. Red stained the water swirling around his feet, and his friend’s body slid down to the ground slowly.

Arthur took a deep breath, hands curling into fists and eyes closing, trying to control himself. Don’t shout. Don’t throw up.

And then, he woke up.

\---

_“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_

\---

The diner table that they’d been seated at was still a bit wet this time- they must have arrived a bit earlier, and the waitress informed them that she’d just wiped it down. It soon dried back into its usual state, but Arthur wasn’t concerned with that right now.

“So you’re living Tuesday over and over again, and I’m not allowed to say- um, those words, and I die today,” Dom said, cocking his head to side and looking at Arthur strangely. Arthur, for his part, wanted to cry in frustration. Or scream. Or both. He just had a lot of feelings, right now, and it was freaking him out.

“Yes. And Dom, I can’t, I cannot, keep doing this. I can’t keep watching you die.” Arthur hung his head, a bit ashamed of how weak he was right then. But Dom was his friend for a reason, and knew Arthur well. He reached out, clapping him on the shoulder. It was a little awkward, over the diner table, but it was Dom and he always makes it work.

“I trust you to keep me safe, Arthur. And I know you can figure this out.”

Arthur smiled weakly, utterly miserable. “Okay, but I need to research. Let’s head back to the motel.”

He only got an hour’s worth of research done before Dom slammed his neck in the doorway and broke it. The crunch would be added to Arthur’s nightmares for life.

\---

Days five through seventeen are spent in the motel, getting various amounts of research done. Dom drowns, chokes, gets electrocuted, gets food poisoning, gets a mysterious and unexplained illness, falls off of his bed and onto a corner of the nightstand, chews on and then falls onto a pencil (leaving it sticking grotesquely out of the back of his neck as he choked), gets accidentally hanged, slits his wrists on glass as he falls into a window, is the target of what looks to be a professional hit carried out by ninjas, shoots himself while cleaning his gun (this one is by far the most unlikely), and the one time he leaves the motel, gets the piano dropped on him by the bickering movers.

David Hasselback, the missing man, was forgotten around day nine, when Arthur started digging into the history of the Mystery Spot itself. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t much of one, though he went back into the history of the land as far back as the records allowed. He found nothing, absolutely nothing.

\---

_“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_

Arthur used to like this song.

\---

 _“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_ ”

It reminded him of Mal. How she would hum it when she was happy.

\---

_“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_

Now he doesn’t think he can ever listen to it again without wanting to break something. 

\---

_“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_

That day, Arthur broke Dom’s phone. Dom pouted all through the day, right up until he was stabbed by a wayward knife, thrown by an out-of-work circus performer.

\---

After day sixty-four (or maybe sixty-five?), Arthur decided to stop keeping count. All it did was drive him crazy(er). The worst part about all of this was how tired he was, waking from Dom’s death straight into Tuesday again. No breaks. No rest.

Arthur had to at least make an effort to keep his friend alive. Even if he was sure that the Mystery Spot wasn’t what was causing this, and he had absolutely no leads. Even if he’d failed so often there has been more than one day where he simply stayed in bed, and ordered Dom to follow suit, hoping against hope the cycle would break. This particular Tuesday was one of them. The death of the day came when Dom tripped coming back from the bathroom, and grabbed Arthur to catch his fall, dragging him out of bed in the process. Arthur’s elbow ended up jammed in Dom’s windpipe, crushing it.

It’s almost enough to make him cry.

\---

The next day, Arthur decided to fuck everything, and wanted to annihilate the Mystery Spot completely. He made the place a firetrap, strategically placing cans of gasoline and lines of lighter fluid so that he could burn the place down to ash within the hour, and smiled as he flung the match inside.

And then the little boy started screaming. The kid must’ve snuck back in after hours, for some reason, and Dom threw down his weapons and dashed inside.

Arthur’s first instinct was to run in after him, but all he could do was stand there. If Dom died, and he woke up, back on Tuesday, the little boy might wake up, too- but he had no idea what will happen if he died. And so he stood there, petrified, listening to them scream. Dom even called for him to help, a few times. He decides that, of all the nightmares this hunting trip has tailor-made for him, this one will be the one that haunts him to his grave.

Arthur cries for hours the next day, and Dom doesn’t understand what’s going on.

Later that day, Dom will fall in the shower.

\---

It was some time after that, when he’s back at the diner with Dom, sipping at his sweet, black coffee, that he noticed something.

Naturally detail oriented, Arthur had memorized all of the patron’s orders by now. Cal had just enough change for a coffee, Tony the mechanic had toast and scrambled eggs and hash browns, the short man whose name he’d never caught had pancakes drowned in maple syrup, et cetera, et cetera.

Except for today. The small guy got up and walked away from his plate the same as usual, black hair brushed back from his face the same, faded black jacket the same, white button up the same, leaving behind just a little of his… Pancakes with strawberry syrup. Different.  
He stared after the man, the only person besides him to change their order since that very first Tuesday. While he’s distracted, Dom chokes to death on a piece of bacon.

\---

The next day, Arthur is ready. He’s got his gun and his knife with him (although, being honest, it’s a rare day when he doesn’t have a knife strapped to his forearm), and when the man got up to leave, Arthur followed him. 

Behind him, Dom was trying to get his attention. It didn’t take him long to figure out that Arthur wasn’t going to say anything, so he followed his friend, swearing and tossing some bills on the table.

It was child’s play for Arthur to tail the man into an alleyway behind the diner. It’s even simpler for him to grab the guy and pin him against a brick wall, his blessed silver knife pressed to the man’s throat and his gun to the man’s temple. It’s his favorite silver knife, with a blessed blade and warding carved into the handle by Yusef, and the gun has a bullet of iron. He’s covered as many bases as he can; he’ll carve this guy to bits and burn them if that’s what it takes.

“I know it’s you,” he said, low and threatening.

“Bwuh- huh?” The man seemed confused. It was a good act. “I- who are you? What? Just- take my wallet! Please!”

Behind him, Dom was talking, too. “Arthur, let him go. Whatever this is, it isn’t him, okay? Arthur? Let him go.”

“No!” Arthur shoved at the short guy again. The man whimpered. “No. I will kill you, right here, right now, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, and why you’re killing Dom every day!”

The guy in front of him shook for a minute, and Arthur saw him begin to laugh. His face changed, and he became taller, broader. About Arthur’s height, in fact. The man’s hair lightened, parted itself to the side and looked as if’d been combed down. Stubble grew. His clothes went from cheap and nondescript to a singularly offensive style. He gave Arthur a knowing smirk. “You can’t kill me, Arthur. Although, good job! I was wondering when you’d figure me out!” His voice is deeper than before, and saturated with mirth, his British accent lending his words a distinct smugness.

(In the background, Dom freaked out, demanding answers. He was ignored by both parties.)

Arthur was less than amused. He pressed the knife tip closer to the man’s throat, drawing one red bead of blood. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” He hissed.

The man just laughed again. “So many questions. Well, you can call me Eames, darling.”

Eames may be broader, but they’re pretty much the same height and Arthur’s pissed enough that it doesn’t matter; he could probably take on an elephant. He slammed Eames back against brick again, but the other man doesn’t react.

“Answer me,” Arthur growled, “or I will decapitate you, put a silver bullet in your heart and an iron one in your severed head, then set you on fire for fun. If you’re still not dead, I’ll keep going, until I find something that does kill you.”

“So vicious!”

“Tell me why you’re doing this to Dom!”

Eames smirked. “Why, Arthur, it’s not about Dom. It’s about you.”

Stilling, Arthur looked at the man- or monster- suspiciously. “What.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, you. You’re always following Dom around, acting like a big stick in the mud. His loyal, respectable, responsible partner. You so devoted to him, you won’t even think about yourself anymore. About how you’re still grieving for his wife. She was your best friend, wasn’t she?”

A vein in Arthur’s cheek jumped as he clenched his jaw.

“And you won’t even let yourself miss her. You just concentrate on Dom and pretend it’s not a problem. Admit it, Arthur- you don’t even know who are anymore, when you’re not in Dom’s shadow.”

Arthur snapped, pulling back his arm to better slash this Eames guy’s throat. Eames chuckles. “Now, now, we can’t have that,” he said, and snapped his fingers.

\---

_“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”_

Arthur woke up, ready to hurt something. But the song wasn’t the same, and the alarm by his bed read Wednesday. It wasn’t being played in a tinny tone by the speakers, it was being sung, by a woman’s voice. A beautiful voice that he had missed, for a very long time.

“Ah, Arthur!” Mal looked just as he remembered her. Well, almost. Her hair was longer, as if she’d let it grow out, her smile brighter than memory could properly capture. “You’re awake!”

Dom walked up, hair wet from a shower, and smiled in a way he hadn’t since Mal had died, wrapping his arm around Mal’s waist. 

It was easy to remember two, separate series of events: a timeline in which Mal had died, and he had been stuck in a grotesque parody of Groundhog’s Day; and another, where they had called on him for back-up in the nick of time, and Mal had been saved. God, he could even remember seeing Pippa and James last week, tucking them into bed and, when they insisted, reading them a bedtime story while Dom pouted and Mal laughed.

Arthur shot out the bed, gathering his friends close in a hug. It was a lot more affectionate than he normally was, but Jesus Christ, he’d missed them. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing and tearing up, even if he refused to cry. He had them back. He had his family back.

Dom returned the embrace awkwardly, even as Mal squeezed Arthur tight. “Jesus Christ, Arthur, how many Tuesdays did you have?” Dom asked, sounding strained.

“Enough.” It was all he would say on the subject.

Their day was spent lazily enjoying each other’s company (Arthur cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling), before he decided he couldn’t stand another moment in the hotel room. So they packed up, chatting and bantering easily. Dom and Mal volunteered to lug the bags out to the car while Arthur did the last check of the room, to make sure they hadn’t left anything valuable or suspicious (or both), taking his time. He wanted to give the married couple a little time alone. 

By the time he got out to the car, Mal and Dom were dead, holding each other’s hands and staring into each to each other’s eyes. They’d been stabbed, Mal in the stomach and Dom in the chest. Arthur rushed over, grabbing their joined hands and squeezing his eyes shut, waiting.

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes and the Cobbs were still there, miserable and bloody. And it was Wednesday, and he wasn’t waking up.

He figured the roaring rampage of revenge he promised himself was his right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaller update than I had hoped, sorry. I'm shit at actually getting things done. Compared to the first chapter this looks so damn short... Coincidentally, I'm also convinced this part is shitty, but it's not fixing, either. Also, in case it wasn't obvious, all the the timelines are based off of the "present day" of chapter one. Sorry if I confused anyone.

Within a week, Arthur had contacted Yusuf, and began working on what kind of creature could pull something like this off. The warlock allowed Arthur run of his living room and study, depositing blankets and pillows on the chaise. Arthur set up at his friend’s old wooden desk, letting his notes collect in small piles, and ignored the steadily-less-subtle hints Yusuf dropped that he needed to sleep. (Arthur thought that denying him coffee was just inhumane.)

He decided that he had to dig back at the start- the original case- to find any clues at all. It hadn’t seemed very important or relevant at the time, but Arthur already knew that Dexter Hasselback went missing, and wrote reviews of so-called “Mystery Spots” on his free time, showing that they were fakes and pointing out why. Actually, the guy seemed like something of an asshole, and had put more than a few places out of business by proving them as hoaxes. The irony of him disappearing at a Mystery Spot, just like like the ones he’d debunked, had made Arthur smile, the first few Tuesdays. 

He dug for an entire three days, with only a few uncomfortable thirty-minute naps when he eyes refused to focus, before surrendering and asking Yusuf what his opinion was on the case. 

Instead of talking, he dumped all of his work (sorted neatly into clearly labeled folders) in front of Yusuf when he was most likely to help. It just so happened that that time was while Yusuf was drinking his morning coffee, and the offering of papers allowed Arthur time to steal a cup and dump a decidedly unhealthy amount of sugar into it.

Yusuf smacked Arthur’s arm when he saw the mug, but read the files. “You couldn’t have given me these before?”

“I wanted to do it myself, but it’s taking too long. I assume that you know what this is, then?”

“I can solve the whole bloody case! The only thing powerful enough to do what he did to you, and to Hasselback, and have that kind of humor is a Trickster.” Yusuf seemed tired, but the small grin around his mouth betrayed the fact that he was proud of himself for solving Arthur’s big mystery so quickly. “They’re like demigods. Or, real gods, if you’re unlucky. I would just be happy that it wasn’t Loki you ran into- that bastard’s vindictive. He and Thor have some kind of thing-”

Arthur hoped he could make it clear how much he didn’t care about Loki with his blank, impassionate face. “How do I kill it?” The clunk of his mug on the table seemed louder than it probably was.

“It’s not going to be easy. You need to stake him. I can handle getting the stake for you, if you promise to actually sleep.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Yes, you do! You’re only human, Arthur, and you’re killing yourself. What do you think Mal would say? Or Dom?”

He didn’t say anything, but shifted guiltily in his seat. Mal and Dom would have killed him themselves if they saw him now. And besides, if he died, who would be able to track down Eames and bring them back? No, he had to take care of himself. As much as he didn’t want to.  
Reluctantly, Arthur agreed to sleep for a full ten hours, and flopped down on the chaise with indigence. He could’ve done with about six, but Yusuf had said that any less than ten and he wouldn’t help Arthur at all, period.

When he woke up refreshed and ravenous (and a little pissed at Yusuf for being right) after fourteen hours, he found all the literature Yusuf had- six dusty old tomes in at least four different languages and three binders’ worth of papers- stacked on the desk, next to his folder and laptop. He also found a paper bag with no less than seven sharp stakes, all smeared with something flaky and dark. Blood, probably, or some concoction that Arthur didn’t want to think about. A post-it note was left on top of the mess, incongruously bright neon-yellow and modern. It read:

_A: I’ve gone out. I won’t be back for at least three days. You’re welcome to stay, but I assume you’ll be gone about three hours after you get up. This is all I’ve got on Tricksters. You’re welcome. –Y_

Running a hand through his hair, Arthur considered what he had to do before he left. Eat. Photocopy everything. Shower. Figure out what direction the Trickster was in.

He left the old, familiar house in two hours, with a stack of bills hidden in the silverware drawer, under the false bottom, where Yusuf was likely to find them. Yusuf was a friend, yes, but he didn’t do this shit for free. It just meant he trusted Arthur enough that he didn’t have to ask for payment up front, or, apparently, at all.

\---

Anything that smacked of irony, or deadly pranks, Arthur tracked down. He cleaned out a bunch of demons who thought they were exceedingly funny in Lawrence, Kansas, and a nest of vampires in Chicago who lured emotionally vulnerable, Twilight-obsessed teenaged girls out of their homes. He considered going to look at the werewolf case in London, but there were plenty of hunters there, and it was most likely just coincidence.

And for about a month, Arthur was even careful about it, right up until the hunt in a rural part of Louisiana. He didn’t take unnecessary risks, slept at least three hours a night, hunted things down and took his anger out on them. But then a demon caught him with a knife to his ribs, right where his heart was. (He knew where a heart was located, he’d had to shoot/stab/stake enough of them.) He swayed on his feet, hitting the ground hard as he went down. Before his vision blacked out, he thought of Dom and Mal. He may have failed to bring him back, but at least they’d all be together. Pippa and James would be alright, they were with their grandparents anyway.

Except.

His vision came back. He was still bleeding, he was still in huge amounts of pain, but he wasn’t dying. The demon was surprised, to say the least, and he wasn’t above taking advantage of that, turning on the exorcism chant he’d saved to his phone as an audio file.

Later, when he was stitching up the wound, he decided that it was probably the Trickster’s fault. A failsafe, probably- Arthur couldn’t commit suicide, even by his own recklessness. 

Psychological torture. Unfortunately for the Trickster, that only made Arthur more determined. And, bonus, he now had a new card up his sleeve in hunts, for now at least.

\---

When he was finally able to find something significant, another five months after that, it was a coincidence. Because Arthur’s life was just like that. On the surface, it looked like a routine salt-and-burn. A professor of a university who sleeps with students jumps out of the window of Crawford Hall- a building rumored to be haunted. Simple. But, according to the students at the bar, the rumored ghost jumped out of Room 669. On the plan, there was no room 66-anything, as it was only four stories tall, and the building hadn’t been renovated. Even better, there were no articles about co-eds committing suicide after being a professor’s one night stand in the local newspaper. All he had was the words of a few tipsy college kids.

As a last ditch effort, Arthur decided to get inside the room, check for EMF. Dressing as a journalist, complete with a (fake) press ID, he introduced himself to the janitor as Harvey Spector. The janitor, a small guy with dirty-blond hair and a Mars bar in his front left pocket, smiled and proclaimed himself to be one Gabriel Milton.

“Mr. Milton, how long have you been working here?” Arthur asked, hoping he could get this over with.

Milton’s smile was easy, familiar. “I’ve been mopping these floors for about, I dunno, maybe four months?”

Arthur held a small notebook out in front of him, pencil poised to write. He would, of course, remember all of this, but people were much less suspicious if you showed them what they expected to see. “And they told me you were here the night the professor died?” (‘They’ were a few drunk frat boys, but he didn’t have to tell Milton that.)

“I can do ya one better- I found the body.” Milton’s eyebrows twitched, and he seemed way too entertained by a person’s death for Arthur to be entirely comfortable.

“I see. Do you think you could let me into the professor’s office to look around, and tell me about him a bit?”

The janitor nodded, and gestured at the stairway behind him. “Sure, right this way.”

As they walked, Milton gave Arthur all sorts of information, from banal little facts (“He was really full of himself, this one”) to useful things (“He was pretty well-liked by his students and coworkers, even got on with his wife”). Eventually, though, he stuck gold. “He wasn’t alone when he went up there, you know.”

“Really?” Arthur prompted, trying to sound casual.

The janitor’s eyes lit up. Gossipy types were so helpful. “Yeah, he had some pretty student with him. And it wasn’t the first time, either, if you catch my drift.”

A guy who liked sleeping with college girls, killed by a ghostly co-ed who committed suicide over being used by a professor for sex. Poetic justice.

He tried not to get excited. It could still be a coincidence, of course. But with no EMF in the room, it wasn’t likely this was a regular haunting.

But then, the next day, a frat boy got abducted. By an alien, if he was to be believed. Truth be told, the circular burn mark in the grass on the university lawn certainly looked as if it could’ve been made by a jet engine, of a sort.

Curtis, the kid in question, told Arthur the whole tearful story over a large glass of beer in the bar that night. “They, uh, p-probed me,” he stuttered into the froth. “They beamed me up with some kind of light, and they probed me over, and over, and over, and over, and one more time.” The frat boy gulped down some beer, some sloshing over the rim of the mug and onto his shirt. He didn’t seem to notice. “And then, it got worse. They- they made me slow dance with them!”

Arthur wasn’t really sure what to do with that.

So far, though, the case for the Trickster looked good. Sleazy professor killed for trying to get with the wrong ghost, and a frat boy who got hazed.

He pulled out his leather case. Inside was a comprehensive how-to on Trickster-killing, that he had made from Yusuf’s texts. Thankfully, the moon was full tonight, and he wouldn’t have to wait. Crawford Hall’s auditorium was the ideal place to set up, so Arthur dragged his bag to the stage and set up the preliminary work: setting up the bowl of ingredients, spray painting his sigils on a rubber sheet taped to the ground. (No reason to leave evidence anywhere. Spray painting on the floor meant questions later.)

With that done, he took his place at the center of the sheet, the metal bowl at his shoes. _"Lunam, et stellas in potestatem plenam, te invoco hodie. Aliquando amet potestatem adversum me et te hodie vocant."_ _Under the power of the full moon and the stars, I call you here tonight. Under the power of the magic you used against me, I call you here tonight._

He drew his silver knife, and carefully slit his left wrist, following the vein up to his elbow. Really, the spell implied you were supposed to kill a person for the galleon of fresh blood, but killing an innocent wasn’t something Arthur was willing to do. He could spare the blood, seeing as he couldn’t die anyway.

_“Sanguinem calidum in potentia, te invoco hodie.” Under the power of blood still warm, I call you here tonight. Appear!_

“It’s nice to see you again, Arthur. And you’ve been reading up on me, how flattering!” The janitor said, grinning around a mouthful of Snickers. Arthur should’ve fucking known it would be this guy. He had been right near the scene of both crimes, and way too gleeful about it.

He picked up the stake and pointed it at Milton. “Bring them back. Or I will shove this stake through your fucking heart.”

The Trickster snorted, and his form changed like liquid, settling into the annoying British man from before, clean-shaven this time. “I think you’ve rather missed the point of the lesson, Arthur.”

“Oh, yeah? And what would that be, exactly?” The blood was still dripping down his arm, but he gestured sarcastically anyway, little red drops landing on his shirt, his pants, the ground, even Eames.

“You haven’t figured it out?” he was still fucking smiling, the bastard.

“What, that I’m useless without them? Because I’m not.” He was powerful, a force to be reckoned with, and everyone knew it.

Eames didn’t look as amused now. He looked- concerned, maybe? “No, you’re bloody reckless!” He took three steps toward Arthur, putting himself just within arm’s reach. Gently, Eames laid two fingers on Arthur’s forehead, and the cut on his arm closed itself up neatly, the blood disappearing. He clenched his fingers on the stake, ready to shove it through Eames’s heart, but the Trickster just snapped and it dissipated.

Eames’s eyes met Arthur’s blue ones. “What you don’t seem to understand here, Arthur, is that I am not your enemy.”

Arthur snarled, even more furious. “You killed my best friend. Over and over again, and I had to watch. And then, you brought back Mal, just to kill both of them off for good. What part of that says ‘friend’, exactly?” He spat.

“Oh, darling, I’m many things, but I am not your friend.”

“Then what the hell are you?”

“An interested party. Something big is coming, can’t you feel it?” Eames looked almost frantic, trying to make Arthur understand with sheer power of will. “There are more things to hunt now than there have been in years. Demons used to be rare, with maybe four possessions a year, and now you can’t throw a stone without hitting one. Someone’s planning something, and you’re going to be smack in the middle of it all.”

Arthur took a step back. Eames looked dead serious, and he was right. But this bastard knew something, and he didn’t seem to be sharing the most important information.

“Who’re they? And why do you care?” Arthur demanded.

Eames just shook his head. “No, no, you’re still missing the point!” He said, looking agitated. “Dom, Mal- they’re your weak spots, and everyone knows it. They are going to use that against you, manipulate you. I’ve been trying to make you prepared! You’re so smart, but you don’t get it!”

“Prepare me? By torturing me?” Arthur smiled harshly, sarcastically. “Mal was a nice touch, by the way, very inspired.”

“She was an apology. I thought- I wanted to make it up to you. Killing your friends, d’you think I enjoyed it? Some of it was funny, almost, I admit, but honestly, I hated it, and that boy—” Eames stopped, looking genuinely distressed, and shook his head. “Look. I just thought you would want to be able to talk to her, one last time. Say the shit you didn’t get a chance to. That kind of thing.” 

Eames looked at his feet, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I really am. But it was necessary. You needed to learn.”

Arthur had blanked out about half of what the Trickster had said. Tricksters, by definition, were liars and conmen, just like Arthur himself. And he knew better than to fall for this horseshit. It did, however, succeed in angering him further, a feat he hadn’t thought possible.

“Bring. Them. Back.”

Eames shook his head sorrowfully at Arthur. “I don’t have enough power for both of them. Dom, I can do, but Mal- she’s been dead a long time, Arthur. I stretched my limits with her the first time, and I could only keep her here for a little while. Look, I feel terrible, just- let me make it up to you, yeah?”

“You want to make up for killing my friends.” Arthur’s flat tone made Eames wince.  
“I know, it sounds bloody ridiculous, but. A year. I’m yours, for a year. I can heal you, I can wipe memories, I can fight. All at your discretion. Please, Arthur, this isn’t what I intended, you have to see that.”

Arthur really, really wanted to stab him. But if he did, he couldn’t bring back anyone. He pushed the fact that Eames looked very upset out of his mind. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“Surely, you have a binding spell. You were able to summon me, and this one is a lot more rare.”

Arthur nodded slowly. A binding spell would do the trick. But Arthur still wanted to kill him.

As if reading his thoughts, Eames piped up, “I can try. It would take a very long time and a lot of power, but I can try to bring her back. I can’t guarantee it, but I will do everything in my power.”

“Well, I don’t have much choice then, do I?” Arthur opened his leather case, and scanned the list of ingredients in a binding spell.

\---

Arthur woke up, to the sound of quiet jazz played on tinny speakers. Dom was sitting on the next bed, his phone resting on the nightstand between them. They were back in that nightmare of a hotel room, back in Broward County, but it wasn’t like he cared. Arthur shot up and out of bed, grabbing Dom around the shoulders and hugging him tightly.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur. How many Tuesdays have you had?”

Arthur didn’t say a word, just let his friend go and started to pack his things. Dom followed suit, and he could tell Dom was relieved that he didn’t want to talk about his feelings.

There was a quiet sound, a shift in air pressure, and Eames appeared at Arthur’s shoulder. He looked a little sheepish as he apologized to Dom, who, naturally, freaked out and demanded answers.

Arthur really, really wished he had some.

**

*----ABOUT 11 MONTHS AGO----*

**

Eames was hard to get used to, mostly because Arthur had stopped ‘getting used to people’ around the tenth grade. Everyone after that was ‘tolerated’ or a rare exception. Eames was a whole separate category, not in the least because he was an asshole. Mostly it was because it was impossible for either Arthur or Dom to trust him, and having one of them stay up ‘on watch’ with him every night was draining. But it needed to be done. 

Similarly, with the nest of vampires picking off the citizens of small town in rural Virginia, they needed to go and help. The were no two ways about it. The absolute worst thing about vampires, though, was that if even a little blood got into your mouth, you could turn. 

Arthur and Dom were fighting a vampire behind a bar, Dom a little drunk and Arthur more than a little tired. Eames was back at the hotel where they had left him, so it was just the two of them. Arthur lashed out with his favorite knife, but the vamp, a slight, fey-looking woman with sandy hair, darted around him easily. Arthur was just too slow, and he likely wasn’t going to get faster until he had some sleep. 

He chased the vamp as she ran at Dom, trying to get a good angle to decapitate her from behind. He was right behind her, knife raised, when Dom got a lucky shot at her neck. Her blood sprayed from her arteries as if he heart was still beating, and Arthur felt his face get warm. Ignoring the blood, Dom continued to hack at her throat. The vampire girl scuttled back, one pale hand covering her gaping wound. With a final hiss, she ran into the darkness and vanished.

Arthur opened his mouth, trying to catch his breath, and noticed the warm coppery taste on his lips.

He _hated_ vampires.

\---


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THIS TOOK FUCK EVER. SORRY.  
> Seriously, in between this and the last update, I've made an entire cosplay, gone to a convention, been sick, had family be sick, started a very active RP blog, and become a GM. But you have a chapter now! ~~Even if it's super short.~~ Yay?

**

\---

**

Dom took Arthur back to the hotel, despite Arthur’s quiet request for a dignified death. Arthur had his knife, but didn’t think he could go through with it. Cutting off your own head seemed... extreme, even for him. 

“Eames. You said you were here to help. Help him,” Dom commanded, gesturing to Arthur, who sat on the edge of the bed, looking defeated. Eames shifted a little in the seat he’d claimed for himself, looking unhappy. Dom continued to stand over him.

“There are very few things I can’t heal. This, unfortunately, is one of them.”

“Then what-”

“Dom, please.” Arthur’s quiet, resigned voice cut easily across Dom’s shouting. “Just let it go. Let me just die, now, before I hurt someone.”

Eames stood up suddenly, walking over to Arthur. “Don’t be so hasty! I said _I_ couldn’t heal him, I never said that he couldn’t reverse this. Arthur. If you’re careful, and don’t drink human blood, you can turn back.”

Arthur looked up. Unlike before, he was now fully at attention, all signs of his previous attitude gone. “Tell me.”

**

\---

**

An hour later, Eames was handing Arthur a flask of unspeakably gross liquids. They’d turned off the lights for Arthur, in deference to his newly sensitive eyes, but he could still see clearly. Dom, who had refused to leave Arthur even after he’d started getting hunger pangs, hung back at the edge of the room, where he wouldn't trip over anything. 

“Right. Now, all this needs is the blood of the bitch who tried to turn you. Just a few spoonfuls will do the trick. But, remember- even a drop of human blood, and the potion won’t work. You’ll be a vampire, forever.” Eames looked expressionless, or as expressionless as he got, which meant looking slightly unhappy rather than massively upset.

“If that happens, Dom, you’ll need to take care of it,” Arthur said off-handedly, checking the cap on the flask and putting it in his pocket.

From his corner, Dom shook his head, knowing Arthur would be able to see it. “I can’t do that, and you know it.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Eames put up his hand. “If this doesn’t work, and Arthur looks like he’s going to hurt an innocent, I’ll step in.” He didn’t sound pleased with the declaration, but he did sound determined.

Good enough. Arthur nodded at him. Really, he didn’t want to make Dom kill him- they were friends. It would be cruel. But Arthur _could not_ let any bystanders be hurt because of him. By him. Letting Eames lop off his head would work just fine.

“Don’t let things get out of hand,” He warned them, adding one more machete to the not-insignificant arsenal on his back. 

Dom squinted at him. “Aren’t you forgetting something? You don’t even know where the vampire nest _is_.” 

Arthur gestured vaguely at his open laptop. “I had plenty of time to find out where the nest was. There’s only a few abandoned places in town, and only two close enough for a vamp to walk to from that bar. One burned down last week. I think I have a pretty safe bet on where to go.”

Dom didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t try to stop Arthur as he walked out the door. Hotwiring a car was simple. Of course, Dom had already offered his, but, honestly, Arthur didn’t intend on making it back. He would try, of course, but there was a high chance that the nest would kill him, or the potion wouldn’t work, or he’d lose control-

No. He wouldn’t lose control. He _refused._

The engine of the old car he as hijacking sputtered to life just as Eames opened the passenger door and climbed in. “I still think you Americans drive on the wrong bloody side of the road,” he complained cheerfully. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Arthur flatly.

Eames just grinned. “With you, of course. Said I’d keep an eye out for you, didn’t I? Stop you from chowing down on some teenager.”

Of course. Arthur groaned inwardly, and pulled out of the hotel driveway. Having it be a necessity didn’t mean he would enjoy Eames’s irritating presence on the ride over. 

**

\---

**

The abandoned warehouse (how stereotypical could these vampires _get_ ) looked quiet from the outside, but then, it was supposed to. Arthur approached it carefully, an unsheathed machete in one hand and a squirtgun of dead man’s blood in the other. No humans were around. Good.

He opened the door to the warehouse slowly, letting it creak open. It was too loud to go unnoticed, and Arthur knew it. He may as well try to draw them out. “So, is this the local bloodsuckers nest?” Of course it was, he could _smell_ their overpowering scent. They were here, alright.

“Yes, but it doesn’t look like you’re here to make friends. Pity.” Arthur turned towards the woman that spoke- a tall, Amazonian-looking brunette, who had opened her mouth to bare her fangs. Bad move. A stream of dead man’s blood arc’d perfectly from the squirtgun and into her mouth. She choked, falling to the ground and lying still.

There was a moment of peace- _the calm before the storm_ \- and then Arthur was being rushed from all sides by vampires. A gothic-looking boy with spiky hair swiped at Arthur’s left flank, and a middle-aged redneck guy with a beer gut who went for Arthur’s right shoulder were the only two Arthur managed to make out in the madness, and that was because he had to consciously think about which of them to block. He swung his machete out at the goth kid, faster and more powerfully than he would have ever been able to as a human. He blinked in surprise- apparently even freshly-turned vampires were much stronger than people. Who knew. He whirled, and separated two more vamp’s heads from their shoulders with a fierce expression. Their lukewarm blood covered his hands.

Where was the redneck guy? He should’ve had a chunk torn out of his shoulder right about now. He whirled, spraying the last of the dead-man’s blood as he went, ready to take down the hillbilly. Instead, Arthur saw Eames, dual-wielding a pair of short swords with ruthless efficiency and a few bodies littering the ground. 

Eames glanced over his shoulder, and saw Arthur. “What the hell are you waiting for? I can handle this!” 

Arthur nodded, and ran for the back of the warehouse, dropping the now-useless squirtgun. Luckily, there weren’t that many vampires in this nest, only maybe twelve- a dying breed, vampires. Until a few years back, he’d thought they were extinct. 

Behind a wall of boxes, shoved into a corner, there were four dirty mattresses and a pile of blankets, in the center of which was the girl who’d accidentally started to turn him. She looked smaller, now, asleep in the center of the pile. There were indentations in the fabric, where it looked like all the vamps had surrounded her, the wounded one, as if to give her comfort and protection. 

He took a deep breath, and pulled out the bottle, ready to put her to rest. 

There was a sound from behind him, but before he could turn, he felt a searing pain in near his spine. It wasn’t a kill-shot for another vampire, but it would mean hell for a human. He turned as fast as he could without dropping the potion, bringing himself face-to-face with the vampire who’d attacked him- an average-looking redhead. She even still had freckles. 

“I won’t let you kill my sister,” She promised, poised to stab him again with her hunting knife. 

“Then you shouldn’t have killed any humans,” said Arthur. He stuck out with his machete, balancing the bottle in his other hand, but the girl was fast, dancing backwards away from his blade. He chased her, and the thick liquid in the bottle swished ominously, a few drops flying out of the top on onto his hand. She circled, trying to get in between him and the other one. 

This was getting him nowhere. 

The redhead flipped back up onto a towering wall of boxes in what was, admittedly, a great show of acrobatics. Unfortunately for her, his objective wasn’t to kill all vampires, just one. He didn’t have time for a merry chase through the warehouse. 

Arthur spun on his heel, and dashed over to the girl on the bed. The redhead was screaming, and running after him, but he had the advantage. In a few short seconds, he had the blonde’s head off, and was catching her blood in the potion bottle. 

The redhead was wailing, and plunged her knife deep into his neck, ready to take his head off- before the air pressure changed and she was cut short. 

Eames sighed, and pulled the knife from Arthur’s neck. “That’s all of them.”

Arthur laughed a little, feeling the blood drip down the back of his throat. Disgusting. “So, what now? Aren’t you going to heal me?”

“I can’t, Arthur. It only works on humans. You’d have to drink the potion first.”

“If I die from this, you can bring me back. Right?”

Eames shifted, looking uncomfortable. “About that...”

Arthur forwent the talking, and went straight to glaring. Eames was quick to stammer out an explanation.

“I’m running a bit low on juice here, alright? Resurrections aren’t easy, and I made six months of time unhappen on top of that. I need at least another month to be able to do that kind of shit. Healing, now that's much easier.”

Swirling the nasty, thick liquid in the potion bottle, Arthur thought about his options. “So, what kind of plan do you propose?” He asked, a hint of venom in his voice.

“Drink the potion, and I’ll heal you. I’ll just have to be rather quick about it, is all.” Eames’s voice was upbeat, but it sounded slightly forced. 

Arthur told the Trickster what he thought of that plan with a hard stare.

His face fell. “Arthur. If this is going to work, you need to trust me.”

A moment passed, then two. Finally, Arthur relented. “Fine. Don’t fuck up.”

The corner’s of Eames’s mouth turned up in a smile, and he placed two warm fingers on Arthur’s forehead. “Bottoms up, darling.”

“Don’t ever call me ‘darling’,” said Arthur, downing the potion.

It tasted as vile as it looked, slimy and sticky. He could feel some of it seep out the side of his neck, where the redhead must’ve nicked his esophagus, and he shuddered. Then, he screamed, because turning back human _hurt_ , like every last cell of his body had been frozen and someone had just poured scalding water over him. His wounds felt like liquid fire had been poured directly into them, and he could feel his blood (too cold; too hot) gushing. 

It only lasted a moment, however, before a pleasant sort of lukewarm tingling rushed from two points on his forehead and through his body. He could feel the flesh on his neck and in his back knit itself together, felt the blood return to his veins. 

And then it was over.


End file.
